


Florence, 1503

by edgy_fluffball



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Firenze | Florence, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, M/M, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Needs a Hug, Painting, Period-Typical Smell, Renaissance Era, Tumblr Prompt, a hint of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgy_fluffball/pseuds/edgy_fluffball
Summary: Nicolò and Yusuf have some time off and whilst one of them indulges in the art and architecture around town, the growing influence and the young talent rising from the unknown, the other battles his growing feelings and insecurity whenever he sees his companion. It all comes to a close when they get the chance to visit a new, young talent, a certain Michelangelo.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 14
Kudos: 139





	Florence, 1503

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Popstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popstar/gifts).



> Written for the prompt _I want to write you poetry, to write songs about you and draw your portrait! I want to make things for you! It frustrates the hell out of me that I can’t draw and I can’t sing or write or play instruments or paint… you inspire me so fucking much. _given to me by my friend[sassypopstar](https://sassypopstar.tumblr.com/).__

‘It should be around here somewhere, the workshop can’t be that well-hidden in a city like this, these perfumed artists live off of exposure and the possibility to show off their work to the eyes of the world. Wasn’t there someone at that last banquet who told you where to find it? There must have been!’

‘Yes,’ Nicolò dragged him through Florence’s busy streets, past the vendors and open shops, ‘as I’ve told you already, you were too preoccupied listening to the patron, but I got the directions from one of his most prominent clients who told me he would most likely be working on an assignment given to him by the city.’

‘Do you think we’ll get to see it, the alleged masterpiece?’ Yusuf’s eyes darted around the road, from one side of the road to the other, inspecting the shops they passed, ‘Look, they have figs and dates, would you like some?’

He disappeared from Nicolò’s side and materialised again next to one of the vendors offering small earthen pots with fresh fruit that were full of tastes and juices to purchase one for them to share on the last leg of the walk. Florence had brought out new facets of his personality and as much as Nicolò had grumbled at the idea of staying there for a prolonged time, too far from the coast and the comfortable familiarity of what had once been his home, Yusuf’s comfort took priority. Even after centuries, the republic of Genoa still held a place in his heart and the rivalry between the his birth town and Florence made it harder for him to appreciate the summer spent in Florence as they waited for Quynh and Andromache to return from the North. Yusuf enjoyed the long hours of sunlight they got, the late dinners taken after days spent lazing around the city, and no matter how much Nicolò wanted to get out of Medici territory, he would not force the matter.

It was for Yusuf’s sake, he told himself whenever he walked around town, looking around for things to busy himself with. For a few months, he had worked for a wool merchant, running the trade routes and looking through the numbers in the books, keeping busy as Yusuf spent his days studying the architecture around town and got to know some of the more influential names around the workshops.

They had been invited to one of the palazzi for a formal dinner where Yusuf had admired one or two artists from afar. His admiration for their craft, combined with his own experience and drive to learn about the methods used to bring life to statues and frescos were something Nicolò could not get enough of, the way his awareness zeroed in on him and made it impossible for him to notice anything else. Seeing Yusuf’s eyes light up with glee and joy made him feel good about the stay, even if it was in Florence, but nothing compared to the way his face lit up when he learned that the famed young artist was present at the banquet, a man well-known throughout town for the ground-breaking innovation he portrayed and his intuition when it came to sculpting the most difficult blocks of marble into smooth, unnaturally realistic strands of muscles and carved tendons. Yusuf had told him over and over again that the young man who looked no older than them, had already gone far and would continue to do so.

Still, he had been too distracted to meet the young genius in person at the banquet. Nicolò had talked to the man once Yusuf had disappeared into a corner with one of the wealthy patrons who sought his opinion on a talent all of Rome had been speaking about, only to point him out to the artist nonetheless, and walked away with an invitation to the workshop. Yusuf had been overjoyed to learn the news.

‘I think it’s over there,’ Nicolò pointed along the road to where apprentices cleared away splinters of marble from the ground of the open, street-facing workshop, ‘Yusuf?’

He found himself with a mouthful of figs as Yusuf returned to his side with the findings of his detour, eager to share what he had found and practically bouncing on his toes. Nicolò caught a fig dropping from the space between them as his lips were too slow to close around it and Yusuf retracted his hand.

‘We should not dilly-dally,’ Yusuf grabbed his hands again and moved towards the workshop, ‘can you see him? Is he around?’

‘Nicolò di Genova, ciao, how are you, it’s so good to see you again,’ the young genius, Florence’s great son, came towards them with his arms opened up and a smile on his lips, ‘oh, you look even better in daylight now that the candlelight is no longer casting shadows in all the wrong places around your eyes!’

‘Grazie mille, maestro,’ Nicolò greeted the man with a small smile, trying to push Yusuf in front of him, ‘this is Yusuf al-Kaysani, I mentioned him to you at the dinner. You know, when you mentioned looking for a new model to inspire you and take your mind off of the sculpture every now and then.’

Michelangelo tore his gaze away from his face and peered around him to where Yusuf tried to keep his calm and hid his shining eyes and excited flutter well enough to fool the artist. Nicolò, however, knew the lines on his face better than his own, knew how Yusuf’s eyes changed and his intonation got somewhat more pronounced and controlled if he felt like he needed to control a situation.

‘It is an honour,’ Yusuf managed to say, his cheeks visibly heating up, ‘to meet one of the greatest artists of this time and centuries to come.’

‘My dear fellow, a friend of Nicolò’s is a friend of mine,’ Michelangelo, whose youth was evident in his soft features and sparse fuzz of a beard still growing in on his cheeks, ‘he told me of a man whose likeness was worthy of capturing and I have to say, he did not exaggerate. There is no need to flatter me, I shall sketch your likeness even without you buttering me up. We shall see whether your face holds up against inspection after dear Nicolò here sang your praises like a choirboy.’

Nicolò looked around the workshop, ducking out of Yusuf’s line of sight before he could be scrutinised and judged for the way his cheeks heated up and turned red. He did not want to feed Yusuf’s glee about any time he got flustered and ducked away from him. Yusuf liked to mock him for it, called him a blushing virgin and teased him about it endlessly, and yet, Nicolò chose to extract himself before he could say anything he would come to regret later on.

He had told Michelangelo about Yusuf, asked him to share some of his insights with him and draw him as a favour to keep, a souvenir reminding him of their time in Florence. The artist had promised him to take a look at Yusuf and decide whether he was worth engaging as a muse for some time. Looking at them trading secrets of pigment and brush materials, with Yusuf’s eyes shining brighter the longer they discussed, standing in the middle of the workshop whilst everything still went on around them, busy with apprentices and assistants, he felt out of place.

Nicolò found an unoccupied spot close to where the sun fell into the workshop. He kept one eye out on the street and the other on the two artists engrossed in their conversation as they walked through the gaps between the sculptures being crafted. Yusuf followed Michelangelo through the space as if he belonged there already, with the huge block of marble all of Florence waited to be revealed to all of them. Whoever set foot into maestro Michelangelo’s workshop could see what splendid addition to the city’s visage it would make. Nicolò remembered hearing about the giant block of marble when it had been first commissioned to be turned into a statue of David the Giant Slayer, a century before Michelangelo had taken on the task.

Florence was a busy city, without doubt flourishing and profiting from the banks drawing money and riches into their vaults and promoting the economy. As he looked out into the street, he saw it in every passing person, every well-maintained piece of clothing, the jewellery the women wore and the proud gait of the men moving with an air of superiority. The streets smelled of cooked and baked vegetables, children ran past his spot in the window. Nicolò pulled his feet up and leaned his head back against the frame to rest whilst he could.

A distinctive laughter rang through the workshop, the sound sending a shudder of arousal down his back. Nicolò looked up, his head snapping back against the window frame with a crunch.

Michelangelo seemed to have positioned Yusuf on one of the workbenches in the light, turned towards him in a display reminding Nicolò of the paintings hung in most of the palazzi around the city. The artist had taken a seat across from him with a paper unrolled on the table in front of him and a graphite pen in his hand that he had connected to the paper as his gaze went from Yusuf’s face to the sketch he had produced.

‘ _Love, tell me please, if it’s with my eyes / I see that beauty’s truth, that I aspire to, / Or if it is within, since everywhere I gaze / I see that countenance of his, sculpted_ , to say it with Buonarotti, slightly altered to fit you,’ Michelangelo sighed, ‘I beg of you, remain sat still so that I may commit your features to this paper. A profile like yours is exquisite, it must be drawn immediately, I could sculpt statures after your visage and put them on the roofs of cathedrals and people would praise the angelic grace poured into them!’

Yusuf laughed again and Nicolò felt his insides warm up, as if warm oil had been poured into his stomach. It turned rancid the moment he saw Michelangelo busy himself again with his sketch, frantic strokes making up the impression of Yusuf as he grinned and cried with laughter, spluttering a few words about how the poet’s words were nothing compared to the art produced by the very artist. It took Nicolò a few moments to discover the soft pink hue dusting his cheeks and his throat closed up.

A moment later, he grabbed a sheet of paper as well and bent over it, lightly chatting with Michelangelo again as he, too, began to draw. The way their eyes flitted from the paper in their laps to each other made it obvious to him that they drew each other.

Nicolò slipped off his perch before he knew he moved, crossed through the workshop and stepped into the street. He turned towards the river, not willing to see any more of the exchanged looks and intense smiles the two artists shared as they sketched out something that would without doubt turn into something beautiful and perfect. The workshop had turned into a reminder of all missed chances and the years spent quietly wishing he had the bravery to do something about the building urge to tell Yusuf everything he had wanted to tell him ever since they had stopped to kill each other and began travelling together, centuries before.

The tanneries on the edge of the city, downstream from the noble quarters and the busier parts of town to keep the stench of rotting flesh and chemicals out of the air the respectable people of Florence breathed. Nicolò had watched the process of tanning change over the centuries, had had a try himself and yet, no one seemed to have found a way to make it less smelly and unpleasant. He found a spot between two footbridges belonging to different tanners and sat down in the shade provided by the bridges. His shoes sank into the perpetual mud and a small stone dug into his backside but he merely shifted to the side a little to avoid a bruise that would re-form every few minutes.

Nicolò was left to his own thoughts, examining his understanding of what he could still get out of his prolonged life. He knew he could handle himself and a sword, could work for hours without losing focus and did not often fail an assignment he gave himself. He also knew that he still would move the angles of the world for Yusuf, even if it meant giving up the time he had with him in favour of making Yusuf happy.

‘Hello, stranger, what happened to exploring Florence together, huh? You left so quickly, I could not even thank you for arranging the visit.’

Nicolò jumped, accidentally treading into the river and splashing water over himself and Yusuf who had crept up on him. He tried to regain his balance, flailing about but failing to reach the bridge to hold onto.

A moment later, he looked up at Yusuf who stood leaning against the wooden framework. He felt the water soak through his clothes, ruining the flashier cloth Yusuf had bought to commission cloaks for the both of them. Nicolò watched as the stain grew across his chest, darkening like blood clinging to them after a less than peaceful adventure. He had to turn away from him, hiding the shame that coloured his cheeks in burning marks of red across his pale skin.

‘Are you quite alright, dear friend, you left in such a hurry I assumed you’d had a bad oyster for lunch and were dying a miserable death in some dingy corner. It is only because of master Michelangelo’s youngest apprentice that I found you, the boy saw you taking off down here. Really, dearest Nicolò, if you felt not at all equipped to come here you should have told me, I would not have made you leave the comfort of our house. The maestro does send his regards, though, he hopes to welcome you back at his workshop soon to study your face for a statue he has long since planned to sculpt but lacked inspiration for until he set his eyes on you sitting in the window.’

‘You are mocking me,’ Nicolò picked himself up, wincing as the stench or the Arno, tainted by the tanners disposing of flesh juices and chemicals, crept up and settled in his nose, ‘I shall have to go back and get changed before the dance tonight.’

‘Let us go back, then,’ Yusuf seemed to contemplate dusting off his shoulders but instead burst out laughing a moment later, ‘I’m sorry, dearest Nicolò. I should not laugh, it is unbecoming of me. Come on, we should dry you off sooner rather than later.’

Nicolò followed him back through the streets towards their house, listening to Yusuf’s retelling of what he had been up to at the workshop, recounting the sketches he had crafted with master Michelangelo and the sculpted torso of the giant David that was due to be revealed to the Florentine public. According to Yusuf who tried to show more details through gestures and the movement of his head, emphasising the grandeur and genius of the young artist, it would be the show, the masterpiece to finalise Michelangelo’s degree amongst the people. As they rounded the corner, the one with the old widow Loredan’s shop where Yusuf had procured their clothes, he pulled out the sketch, the carefully tucked away paper he had carried above his heart.

‘Look, he showed me this trick, after centuries that I spent drawing and sketching every possible angle of a face, he showed me with one flick of his wrist the true meaning of beauty.’

‘He drew you. It wasn’t for him to command over beauty where it is in attendance already,’ Nicolò opened the door to the palazzo they lived in during their stay in Florence and stepped inside.

Yusuf’s laughter bubbled through their rooms, the sparse furniture they had implemented not enough to absorb it, ‘Oh Nicolò, what is the matter with you? I’m sorry if I offended you in any way, I was about to protest my gratefulness for the opportunity to meet this brilliant young man who will leave his mark on this world sooner, rather than later. I wouldn’t put it past him to end up in Rome and get assignments from the highest places.’

Nicolò opened the chest that held their combined equipment, including the antiquated blades in their scabbards. He picked out a new tunic and pair of pantaloons and went to retreat into the room he had claimed to be his bedroom when Yusuf stepped into the door and put his hands up to his chest.

‘I don’t like the sadness on your face. Why are you unhappy, Nicolò, did you not enjoy our outing today? I thought you had arranged for us to meet with Michelangelo because you wanted to witness his work and thought process in person?’

‘I am not unhappy,’ he tried to push past Yusuf, aware of the hurt in his friend’s eyes as he knocked his hands off his shoulders, ‘I am merely tired. It has been a long day and I am drenched in the sewage from all of Florence’s tanners. Please, just let me have a moment, one moment to get changed and regain my composure.’

‘But Nicolò,’ Yusuf followed him through the door, ‘the young genius didn’t remind you of what beauty life holds for someone like us? His work is visionary, manifesting an outlook into a world yet to come, and the young man was quite excited to see you again after the gala. We shared our best impressions of your favourable face after Michelangelo claimed he could copy any expression onto paper after having studied it for a while, and I have to admit, he did no ill job of it.’

He held out another sketch for Nicolò to view, a rough and yet graceful recollection of his own features, carrying the signature of the man who had copied his face like he had been at the workshop, distracted by the goings-on in the street. Yusuf watched him as he looked at the image, eyes never leaving his.

‘Of course he produced something impressive, it’s Michelangelo,’ he dug something else out of the bag around his shoulders, movements frantic in his urge to show him, ‘but he could never capture your kindness, the essence of your heart and soul, the love you possess for the children begging you for crumbs of bread and the softness beneath the warrior the people see when they meet you. So I had to show him his attempt was nothing but that. See!’

Nicolò recognised yet another sketch of his face, not the way he had looked at the workshop, an impression of his own face a few decades before, his hair longer and brightened by the sun, his closed eyes turned up towards the sky. His lips were pulled into a small smile, amused by something he had overheard. It was a memory that showed him placid and unconstrained with his cloak loosened and the neckline of his tunic pulled down to expose more skin to the warmth of the sun. Yusuf’s feet tapped the ground in impatience, he cleared his throat and ran nervous fingers through his hair.

‘What do you think?’

Nicolò tried to hand the sketch back to him but Yusuf had moved out of his reach by a step already, lifting his hands in a defensive gesture, ‘You keep it, Nicolò, I could not find a reason why I should have it and feast my eyes on the soft fire burning in your heart that makes it so obvious to those who take the time to get to know you.’

‘Oh Yusuf,’ he sighed and sat down on the corner of the desk Yusuf had insisted they put in their shared quarters, ‘I am glad and overjoyed to see you had a day of shared knowledge and got a new acquaintance out of it. It is more than I hoped for when I was introduced to the young artist at the ball. It seemed so much more than anything I could ever show you, so Michelangelo had to, in my place.’

‘What do you mean, Nicolò?’

‘I have many shortcomings and today I have been reminded of the gravest of them. I want to write you poetry, Yusuf, to write songs about you and draw your portrait! I want to make things for you! It frustrates the hell out of me that I can’t draw and I can’t sing or write or play instruments or paint… you inspire me so fucking much and all I can do is watch as men more gifted than me give you the attention you deserve and the knowledge only artists can share. All while I am compelled to be a mere worker in this town, and your humble servant.’

The words spilled over his lips, unrestrained even by his quick thinking, a cascade of admissions that he had carried around for so long that he did not even remember when the thoughts had first come to him. He had spent years trying to forget them, decades learning to mask them and centuries ignoring it. Saying it out loud made him breathe free for a moment in which he considered what had happened.

‘Nicolò, dearest Nicolò – won’t you look at me anymore?’ Yusuf’s voice had gotten closer and when Nicolò looked up from the half-moons his nails dug into his palms, only to disappear a second later, he was standing in front of him, his own hands stretched out towards him, ‘Look at me, please.’

There was no plea or request Yusuf made that Nicolò would not work to fulfil. He allowed him to take his hands and tip his head up a little before his brain caught up with him.

‘Nicolò, is this how you see yourself?’

‘Is this how you see me?’ Nicolò pointed at the sketch, ‘I thought I could introduce you to Michelangelo to give you an opportunity to find a like-minded artist to get to know where I can only come short. There’s been a rumour around town that he has a preference for men and I thought –‘

‘Oh Nicolò,’ Yusuf curled his fingers around his, ‘there’s no need for that, no matter how much I appreciate the maestro and his work. No, not whilst I have the greatest divinely possible masterwork in front of me and by my side at any time, not when you are the most untainted person any deity could devise. You are perfect, Nicolò, and no one could ever compare to you, neither in art nor poetry.’

‘Yusuf –‘

‘No, I see now how long you must have carried these feelings around with you without finding the words or courage to do anything about it,’ Yusuf captured his eyes with a single gaze, locking them in place, ‘allow me to help you formulate them. You don’t have to force and torture yourself. An incentive to help you come out of your shell, dearest Nicolò, the one you have hidden yourself in.’

He moved closer still, his warm eyes encouraging Nicolò to stay and wait out what he did next. There was a twinkle in his eyes that made his heart clench and his chest ache like he was aching to weep but could not convince his mind to comply.

‘Poetry cannot describe your gentle soul, tesoro, and art cannot ever depict all you are. There can’t be a song melodious enough to come close to what your sacrifice means to the world,’ Yusuf’s breath ghosted over his cheek before soft lips pressed a kiss to it, ‘no artist will ever know you well enough to capture what ascertains your essence. I can only be humbled by your presence, my sweet, sweet Nicolò.’

Another kiss was pressed to his other cheek and Nicolò panted into the small touch, the soft, warm mark left on his skin with the familiar scratch of his beard, ‘Yusuf, I cannot expect you to indulge my erring ways.’

‘You are so good with words when you want to be,’ Yusuf sighed and brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes, ‘and yet, you were mistaken in your well-meaning meddling. There is only one man from this peninsula I would be tempted to close up to and he’s neither an artist nor anywhere close to as perfumed and dressed up as all these young, gifted geniuses are once they gain someone’s favour. No, Nicolò, the only man I want is you.’

His eyes were indescribably dark and soft, warm with an emotion Nicolò could not reciprocate but wished to possess for himself. He watched as Yusuf halted, stopped in the middle of the motion he had been about to complete, a hair’s breadth from his lips.

‘You have spent a long time waiting,’ Yusuf whispered, ‘do you want to make yourself wait longer? Do you have the self-restraint it takes to get this far, to know I feel the same about you?’

‘You didn’t say that,’ Nicolò replied, quiet in their pocket of existence with no one there to hear him but Yusuf, ‘you did not say that before.’

‘Does it change anything, dearest Nicolò? Does it change what you understand and how you see me, see yourself – maybe even see that young artist?’

‘It changes everything,’ Nicolò stated, his eyes full with the sight of Yusuf’s quavering lips and restless eyes, the taste of his nerves on his lips and the feeling of a soft hand in his, ‘absolutely everything.’

He slammed his mouth to Yusuf’s, crashing into him with the force of centuries and the hunger of the starved man returning home to the feast. The hand holding his dropped, only to cup his neck and reel him in, merging them together in mirrored desperation. Yusuf pressed into Nicolò’s urging lips, parting his to allow him to take what he needed. Nicolò gladly accepted the invitation and moved into his space, coaxing him towards the bedroom and out of the door, his own hands holding Yusuf’s head, cradling him and guiding him along.

‘Nicolò,’ Yusuf panted against his lips, ‘Nico, have mercy. Please, my heart.’

He pressed his mouth back against Nicolò’s and took his breath away with a single squeeze to his neck and a quick flick of his tongue to his lower lip, licking over it with a small thrust into his mouth that made Nicolò’s knees buckle and his eyes flutter shut. Their breaths mingled, small noises escaping their slipping composure that made them both more desperate for every small touch they could get out of it. Yusuf moved again, letting his hands slide up and down along the slope of his shoulders to come to a rest along his jaw.

‘You are a sight no artist is worthy of,’ he whispered into the heated kisses Nicolò still pressed to his skin, as if he had waited too long to ever get his fill to stop when he got the chance, ‘Nico, you must allow me to breathe, please, you will kill me.’

‘I doubt that,’ Nicolò pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth before resting his forehead against Yusuf’s, ‘will you let me change now, get some new clothes?’

‘Why?’ Yusuf whined but let him go as he moved out of his grasp, ‘You wound me! Now that I’ve barely won you, you remove yourself from me already?’

Nicolò stepped around the heavy bed and looked back over his shoulder, ‘I still smell of the river, Yusuf. I’d rather continue this not smelling of the tanneries.’

‘Oh dearest Nicolò, I can’t begin to tell you how glad I am you realised the profits of washing.’

‘Of course,’ Nicolò rolled his eyes and grabbed the clothes he had dropped to the ground before, ‘I don’t suppose you’ll ever let me live down those years I spent in ignorance?’

‘No, I don’t plan to,’ Yusuf leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, ‘if you insist on halting here, please hurry up, ya hayati.’

‘Are you watching me change?’ Nicolò chuckled, ‘You’ll have all the time in the world to look at me, you don’t need an artist’s excuse anymore.’

‘And so do you. Don’t forget, you no longer have to hide your secret glances.’

Nicolò pulled his tunic over his head, crossed the room and kissed him again, with more courage than before. Between the kisses they exchanged, almost on their way out of the palazzo, he stopped Yusuf with a hand on his arm. The sun set over Florence and the people returned to their homes to be with their families and enjoy dinner together but the two of them were to rediscover their relationship.

‘You wouldn’t be opposed to visiting that workshop again some time, would you?’ Yusuf slotted their hands together, ‘He did ask me to be his muse and yet, I would not want to partake in this without you being a part of it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Michelangelo’s work seems incomplete without a statue of you, my love.’

‘Any excuse to watch me without a way out, I see,’ Nicolò laughed.

‘More than that,’ Yusuf squeezed his hand and pulled it to his lips for a brief touch of his lips, shielded behind a street corner, ‘come on then, we have a dance to get to that Michelangelo probably will be at as well. Let’s give the man a show.’

Nicolò pulled him in, dusk cloaking them in shade and pushed him into the wall of the house behind him, his eyes solely focused on Yusuf, ‘You are mine, mine to have and hold. No one else gets to look at you the way I do. Michelangelo can find another man to ogle at, not you.’

He cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure there was no one around who could see them and pressed a hungry kiss to his lips. Yusuf melted against him, his satisfied grin tactile as he pushed back into him and threaded his fingers into Nicolò’s hair.

‘I like this new side of you. We’ll have to find out more about it because I am enjoying it a lot,’ he groaned and let his forehead rest against Nicolò’s. His lips were raw and spit slick, his breathing heavy and his arms looking for purchase, ‘can we do this more often?’

The sound Nicolò made in response had something of a growl that startled him more than it achieved his goal, ‘Yes. After tonight, we can do it a lot more often.’

**Author's Note:**

> Say Hello on [Tumblr](https://died-by-the-scimitar.tumblr.com/)!


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